Chapter One: The Sleeping Curse

The wind howled through the tall spires of the Royal Citadel, rattling the stained-glass windows of Eldoria’s palace like ghosts begging to be let in. The storm outside was the kind that whispered omens, and in the highest tower of the palace, the young king sat alone—his crown resting on the table beside him, as though even gold felt too heavy tonight.

King Augustin Edevane was only twenty-one, yet his eyes bore the weight of centuries. Shadows gathered beneath them like bruises earned not in war, but in duty. Five years ago, he’d knelt in the blood of his father, the late king, who had died by poison—an assassination that left the kingdom in fear and the boy-prince no choice but to wear a crown still slick with loss.

At sixteen, he'd learned how to sign death warrants with a steady hand. At seventeen, how to mourn and rule at the same time. Now, at twenty-one, Augustin was loved by his people—but he was feared by his enemies, a ruler both kind and terrifying.

He did not take joy in war, but he never lost one. And he never forgave betrayal.

And yet, tonight, none of that mattered. Not his reputation, not his legacy. Because his people—*his* people—were dying.

The sickness had come swiftly and cruelly. First in the east, then spreading through the towns like spilled ink on parchment. No one could name it. No priest’s prayer could lift it. No healer’s herb could slow it. The children were the worst—their tiny lungs wheezing until breath failed them.

Augustin had spent every waking hour in the palace’s war room, pouring over scrolls, reports, and maps with his ministers, searching for answers where there were none.

He stood by the window now, watching the storm. The rain was a thin veil over the courtyard where soldiers had begun stacking wood for pyres. The scent of sickness clung even to the stone walls of the palace. It followed him in his dreams, where the cries of mothers and the silence of the dead were louder than any battlefield.

“I cannot watch them burn,” he whispered, his voice breaking for no one but himself.

Behind him, a voice—aged and tired—spoke gently. “Your Majesty… there may be one path left. But it is one the crown has not walked for a hundred years.”

Augustin turned slowly. His steward, Lord Calder, stepped forward, holding a small leather-bound book. The cover was frayed, and the spine bore the mark of forbidden knowledge—a sun crossed by a crescent moon.

“A tale,” Calder said. “Of a witch who once lived in the Hollowmere. They say she could cure the plague of 1422 with but a single potion.”

Augustin frowned. “Fairy tales.”

“Perhaps,” Calder said. “But the dead care little for what is real and what is not.”

There was a long pause as Augustin took the book. His fingers brushed its leather, and he felt something strange—something cold and old, like the first breath of winter.

“They said she was cursed,” Calder added. “Fell into a slumber when the world no longer needed her… or feared her too much to let her live.”

Augustin turned toward the window again, toward the kingdom now cloaked in rain and smoke. He clenched the book tightly, jaw set with silent resolve.

“Then perhaps it is time the world remembered her name.”

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